Joanne B. Freeman: Joe Wilson’s War
[Joanne B. Freeman, a professor of history at Yale, is writing a book on Congressional violence in the first half of the 19th century.]
ON Tuesday, seven Republicans broke party ranks and voted to reprove Representative Joe Wilson, Republican of South Carolina, for calling President Obama a liar. One of the renegades was Bob Inglis, who upbraided his fellow South Carolinian for a breach of House rules. “That problem could have been fixed by an apology to the House,” Mr. Inglis explained.
And he was right. In fact, his comment reminds us that Congress has a long and storied culture of apology, to go along with its long and storied culture of insult — and that the two traditions are inextricably bound together.
Congressional insults — and apologies — had their heyday in the first half of the 19th century. Much as we envision the pre-Civil War era as the golden age of Congressional oratory delivered by the likes of Henry Clay, John C. Calhoun and Daniel Webster, alongside this eloquence was a generous helping of rough-and-tumble brawling.
Men pulled knives and guns on one another. There were shoving matches and canings — the most notorious being the 1856 attack by Representative Preston Brooks, Democrat of South Carolina, on Senator Charles Sumner, Republican of Massachusetts. Tables were flipped, inkwells and spittoons went flying. Occasionally there was a grand melee with dozens of congressmen pummeling one another, emerging after a few minutes of mayhem with torn clothing, assorted bumps and bruises, and toupees askew. Not surprisingly, accompanying all of this tumbling and punching was a slew of insults.
Most powerful of them all was “the lie direct.” According to the formal code of honor then in play, a man who didn’t keep his word was no man at all, so there could be only one response to such a charge: a duel (or very careful negotiations to avoid one). For that very reason, “throwing the lie” was a handy strategy in Congressional debate. The gasp-inducing drama of the moment was precisely the point. Nothing called an audience to attention as quickly as the threat of gunplay. Whether one was trying to attract attention from the press, derail a debate or humiliate an opponent, the lie direct was a grand slam in the game of politicking....
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ON Tuesday, seven Republicans broke party ranks and voted to reprove Representative Joe Wilson, Republican of South Carolina, for calling President Obama a liar. One of the renegades was Bob Inglis, who upbraided his fellow South Carolinian for a breach of House rules. “That problem could have been fixed by an apology to the House,” Mr. Inglis explained.
And he was right. In fact, his comment reminds us that Congress has a long and storied culture of apology, to go along with its long and storied culture of insult — and that the two traditions are inextricably bound together.
Congressional insults — and apologies — had their heyday in the first half of the 19th century. Much as we envision the pre-Civil War era as the golden age of Congressional oratory delivered by the likes of Henry Clay, John C. Calhoun and Daniel Webster, alongside this eloquence was a generous helping of rough-and-tumble brawling.
Men pulled knives and guns on one another. There were shoving matches and canings — the most notorious being the 1856 attack by Representative Preston Brooks, Democrat of South Carolina, on Senator Charles Sumner, Republican of Massachusetts. Tables were flipped, inkwells and spittoons went flying. Occasionally there was a grand melee with dozens of congressmen pummeling one another, emerging after a few minutes of mayhem with torn clothing, assorted bumps and bruises, and toupees askew. Not surprisingly, accompanying all of this tumbling and punching was a slew of insults.
Most powerful of them all was “the lie direct.” According to the formal code of honor then in play, a man who didn’t keep his word was no man at all, so there could be only one response to such a charge: a duel (or very careful negotiations to avoid one). For that very reason, “throwing the lie” was a handy strategy in Congressional debate. The gasp-inducing drama of the moment was precisely the point. Nothing called an audience to attention as quickly as the threat of gunplay. Whether one was trying to attract attention from the press, derail a debate or humiliate an opponent, the lie direct was a grand slam in the game of politicking....